Excerpt from "Horizon Dawn" book

A splash of mid-air grey-soapy water glinted yellow-white around the edges as it caught the reflected flash of a lightning bolt bouncing off the storefront windows of the Van Gangenburg General Mercantile situated directly across the street from the High Sheriff’s office where local lawman Adrian Van Gangen tossed the contents of his white wash-pan decorated with an enameled bright red ring around the flat top surface-edge of the vessel into the silent street. A rumble of complaint reached his ears an instant behind the reflected light had greeted his leftover morning shaving-ritual remnants; Adrian breathed deeply of the pre-dawn chill air sensing the coming rain. A Spring thunderstorm approached from the west, behind his jail, and the freshness on the wind pleased his nostrils; the town needed moisture. His discarded water plopped into a two inch thick layer of dust on the main street which stretched north to south between the several enterprises comprising the “business”-district of the tiny burg named for the sheriff’s father who owned the biggest cattle spread in the new state; all-in-all, Adrian wryly surmised that it included, roughly, about half of that entire territory, not that any of it might ever benefit him.

In the pale dawn light with the coming sun only a distant promise still hidden below the far horizon, offering only a single, pale white line between the darkness of a fleeing night sky and the shadowy myriad willow tree skeleton-tops densely populating the wide river bank, the sheriff caught a fleeting glimpse of a single rider northbound on the far side of the street opposite his own location. An odd occurrence in his little burg at the dawn’s early hour.

Very briefly, he snatched a silhouette in the glass of the store which had reflected a lightning bolt. The rider was lean, his off-white duster hanging limply on a thin frame; the large, Texas-style, wide brimmed hat shadowed the man’s facial features. The sheriff took notice of a fleeting glimpse of some sort of case like a small, narrow, rigid leather bag too little to be a suitcase used to carry clothing, more like some sort of instrument or long-gun container. While the scant image passed too quickly for any proper analysis, the lawman’s curiosity had been piqued.

Puffs of tiny explosions of dust tendrils rose and fell with the silent advance of the horse’s hooves in the dusty-dry dirt although the lawman could catch only two or three of the quick-strided movements. The brand on the unrecognized animal remained concealed from Adrian’s observation due both to the shadowy darkness of pre-dawn and the fact that the mark would be on the mount’s off-side, opposite his position on the boardwalk in front of his office.

“Unusual,” he contemplated, wondering at the early arrival; as sheriff, Adrian noticed little details. Deep in the back of his mind some detail of the newly-arrived stranger flickered a distant spark of some recognition seeking to flame to life with a hinted-clue to the identity; it quickly died. One day, in the not too distant future, he would realize the importance of that attempted “warning” his subconscious had tried to unveil; by then, it would be far too late for lamenting.

Making a mental note to look into the stranger’s sudden appearance in his little jurisdiction as he caught a final glimpse of the rider and horse pulling up in front of the livery just a few hundred yards north of his position as lightning illuminated the pair, now too far for any possible recognition, seeming more like a graveyard-wraith than flesh and blood, he shook his head.

Otoe Indian blood coursed through the lawman’s veins; he should have been of a stoic character personality persuasion, and, he had inherited many of his tribal peoples’ traits, still, the “white-eyes” conditioning and their strange habits and penchants had invaded his psyche, and, his soul, probably, even, his very spirit, had perverted and diluted and chance for a bore-some singular conclusion of being; like all human examples, designed complexities resulted in a design of pluralistic consequences. A violent, flaring temper dictated his erratic decisions; that the sheriff was well aware of this flaw in the judgment process failed to preclude his outbursts, not that he ever gave any conscious effort to mitigate their often disastrous contingencies.

Right then, other, more important matters occupied his busy little mind other than any concern for his lacking personality; in fact, he cared not what anyone thought of him, mostly, uniquely unaware that anyone might consider him, at all. Thus, quite naturally, Adrian allowed his eyes, and the focus of his concentration, deciding to abandon the lonesome stranger; that business could wait as pressing, 0bviously more important and interesting matters were at hand.

He might be “flighty” and errant in logical perspective, but, he did have his vain priorities.

Sheriff Adrian’s gaze moseyed across the dusty street as he took in the central district.

Next to the mercantile, separated by a narrow alleyway littered with discarded wooden freight boxes and myriad debris from inventory previously delivered to the General Store, the town bank building stood dark in the early dawn, its large glass windows on either side of the front door were shielded by iron bars protecting his father’s money-fortune along with that of the frugal citizenry’s money-savings on deposit; although the High Sheriff could not discern the gold and black painted block letters identifying the bank name, he did know that his pompous brother’s moniker proudly adorned the signage: Hyatt Van Gangen, President. An involuntary shudder crept up the lawman’s spine as the thought forced him to recognize his sibling’s “fair-haired”-son designation by their old man; Hyatt seemed inordinately blessed, getting everything his way.

And, that meant---absolutely Everything!...And, Always! Damn! The luck! Damn it---all!

The bank’s one story elevation looked squat sitting between the tall, two story mercantile building and Hyatt’s mansion to its immediate other side, a splendid Victorian design sporting a wide front porch, gingerbread decorative craftsmanship proclaiming wealth at each corner with numerous windows covered in fine lacy filigree curtains and sitting slightly back from the street edge. Its front yard manicured with greening grass, getting ready for an onslaught of myriad color displays in the flower gardens generously surrounding the cobblestone front walk leading to the porch entrance, all contained within a black iron fence stretching across the front of the property and disappearing along either side toward the rear. An impressive double gate served notice that it protected the “elite” inhabitants within, or, was it, merely, to keep the riff-raff out?

But, Adrian’s stern demeanor melted and he purposely forgot, for the moment, his bore-some brother, his accumulated wealth, status and impressive stature when the lamplight in the upstairs side window nearest his location flickered to life; the lawman suddenly forgot everything else. That was Byrne’s room and each morning, she teased her brother-in-law in a flirtatious manner.

Let the show begin! Adrian leaned against the wooden support post of the jail house as he took in the delicious sight. That Byrne! Wow! Quite the lady! Yes! Indeed! Lucky Hyatt, again.

The ghost-like stranger, nearly already forgotten, faded to complete obscurity as lovely Byrne came center stage in another seductively perfect performance. For several heart-racing minutes, the sheriff delighted in Byrne’s coquettish activities as her shadow-silhouette danced a dream of lustful desires for his eyes to feast upon. And, that, they did! Voila! Bravo!

Once she had donned her outer dress for the day’s events, whatever they might entail, she always managed some sort of fancy tea or luncheon or dinner, one or another social function concerning the local church or school, some civic importance, or just another shopping foray to the Van Gangenburg General Store to place yet another order to New York or Paris. Byrne could really spend Hyatt’s money; luckily, there seemed to be no end to his eternal “Artesian-well” replenished-wealth; the more she spent, the more there seemed to be to squander, once again.

The cell door behind Adrian clanked an iron echo as Jasper turned the heavy key in the lock; the disturbance interfered with the sheriff’s purview of provocative Byrne causing him to scowl.

“Damn! You! Jasper!” The sheriff groused under his breath as he peered through the dirty glass of the jail’s window to the interior. Jasper entered the outer office tucking his faded blue shirt into hanging pants as he wrestled suspenders over his thin shoulders to secure the wardrobe.

Adrian shook his head, disgusted with his deputy’s slovenly appearance. When he looked back to the display at Byrne’s window, the lantern had been extinguished; the black glass stared back at him as if yawning in humor at his loss of an enjoyable presentation by the mistress-of- the-manor. The High Sheriff spat an angry spray of disgust at the vacant street. So much for that!

Looking back at the livery stable to check on the stranger, he found it void of human or horse.

Then, as he sneaked a final peek at his brother’s mansion, Adrian smiled, thinking of the coming hot season when he and Byrne would meet surreptitiously at their secret rendezvous cove at the river’s edge for cooling interludes of fun and frolic entertainment. Let the games begin!

Jasper slammed shut the heavy metal door to the cast iron wood stove which served to heat the jailhouse; that habitual effort was quickly followed by his high-pitched outlandish curse: “Dag nab it!”, about as bad as the slow-witted deputy dared transgress verbally though the man spent a goodly amount of his “free” time hanging around the Albino Prairie Dog Saloon where he had definitely learned all the “bad” words; he simply chose not to employ the vulgarities; he did attend services every Sunday, and, stayed awake for the sermon, too. The “clang” of the hot door brought Adrian back from his pleasant reverie to Van Gangenburg’s early morning mundane reality. At least, the brief sight of Byrne had managed to warm him, somewhat. He decided to pay her a visit, later in the day. That consideration warmed him for the second time.

“Mornin’, Jasper,” the sheriff greeted blandly as he re-entered the chilly office.

“Mr. Adrian,” came the tepid acknowledgement highly distorted through a stifled yawn. “Have you some coffee in a few minutes, soon as this ole ‘smoker’ warms up, some”

“Thanks,” replied Adrian, appreciative of the deputy’s attentiveness; he was a good guy.

“Bacon, ham, eggs, crisp fried potatoes laced with fresh green onions and a dozen ‘Dutch oven’ biscuits’ll be right up, too.” Jasper smiled, knowing how much the sheriff liked to eat. Jasper served a fine breakfast which the lawman never failed to enjoy, always having seconds.

Adrian nodded approval; his usual attention span might be unfocused and his decision-making prowess surely suffered, the lawman enjoyed his conveniences and courtesies including a tidy, warm jailhouse, an obedient deputy, good food and lots of it; he liked to eat. Jasper obliged.

Adjusting his raggedy red and white checkered shirt over his ample belly, the High Sheriff tucked it, unceremoniously, into grimy pants. He needed to remind Rosita, his rotund Mexican wife, to sew a few more buttons onto the shirt front as the three remaining ones barely managed to keep his barrel chest and distended belly covered; food and drink, beer, mostly, the cause.

“Damn!” He swore silently, pulling at the raggedy shirt, thinking that Rosita needed to be kept on a tight rein. He shook his head, agitated that he was getting lax with his handling of her.

Ten years earlier, in her youth, she had been quite the looker as a dark-skinned Mexican girl in her fourteenth year of life, just coming to full womanly blossom on her father’s ranchero down Mexico-way. Domingo Rodriquez was not a wealthy man, not even by measures of his own poor country; but, he had done quite well acquiring control of several thousand acres just south of the United States border running eight hundred head of horses which he sold to the governments of each country along with a herd of long-horn Texas cattle, sheep and pigs. With an inborn acumen for business, the rancher managed quite well. Rosita was his pride and joy.

 Adrian had ended up in Mexico quite by accident. He had fought through the latter half of the American Civil War on the Confederate side after he had been “conscripted”, as it were, by the merciful pardon of none other than William Clarke Quantrill, himself, when two of the outlaw band had captured Adrian in a chance saloon-altercation which Adrian had lost. Originally, the boy had been assigned wrangler duties by Quantrill because of his knowledge of horses and cattle gained while working on his father’s ranch prior to the time he had been forced to flee.

Sensing defeat on the wind in the last vestiges of the civil conflict, he had enthusiastically joined with Quantrill’s Raiders in the Kansas-Missouri campaign of the demented rapscallion finding adventure in the exploits and enjoying perpetrating the evil atrocities while willingly partaking of the sick plunder sharing the stolen goods and loving the fringe benefits of captured women who were regarded as mere slaves abandoned to the lecherous whims and wishes of the animals who kept them prisoner; a mangy pack of wild wolves had nothing on these miscreants.

During the winter of 1863-1864, the outlaw leader took his army south to Tyler, Texas, where the group awaited spring. For entertainment, the ne’er-do-well troublemakers harassed the Union Army teamsters who ferried supplies and material to the northern soldiers and the raiders trampled across the Mexican border to plunder the poor peasants residing there. When news of the end of the Civil War reached these men, then under the command of General Joseph O. Shelby, they refused to accept the South’s defeat, choosing rather to flee into Mexico, for good.

When the outlaw band became hunted like the wild animals they had descended to, Adrian broke with the group, intending to go deep into Mexico where he could lose himself, get a fresh start and begin a ranch. Turned out, Mexico was poor as a vagabond mouse so he drifted along the border, keeping low. With the stash he had stolen as a member of the outlaw band, a meager sum in the states, Adrian found himself handsomely wealthy in the poor south country. In an effort to blend into the countryside, he took a job as a vaquero on the Domingo Rodriquez ranchero, hoping to become “invisible” to the authorities, should the U.S., or Mexico, decide to pursue the Raiders south of the border. There, he laid eyes on the beautiful senorita, Rosita.